Page 3 of Savage Saint

Ismael gasps, while Henry looks at me with wide, pain-filled eyes. One mutters a low mierda, while the other trembles from the instant pain.

I let them sit with the consequence. They should’ve known better.

Picking up a napkin from the now-damaged table, I wipe my hands before tossing the used tissue into a nearby bin—a lesson in etiquette. There’s no need to mistreat my employees by making them pick up nasty shit from the floor.

Keeping my eyes on Henry, I smile. Lean back in my seat again. “You’re in a very dangerous situation, Henry David Diaz from San Pedro de Macorís. I know everything about you.”

“Impossible. We’ve hidden⁠—”

“You’re an azaroso who’s reached the end of his rope. One bad decision after another.”

Ismael holds both hands up, completely sober now. His expression is no longer cocky, eyes shifting around the room. If he’s searching for help or a fast exit, there is none. “Saint, let’s take a moment to calm down. Things are getting out of hand.”

“No.” That one word stops Ismael, and his shoulders slump. Maybe it’s finally dawning that coming here to offer me a cut from the trafficking of women was a bad idea. I’m not a good man, but selling someone’s innocence to the highest bidder is something I’d never do.

If a woman kneels or sucks cock for a living, it’s because she chose to do so.

Because she likes sex—the thrill of a different cock every night—not out of necessity or by force.

“From your father’s debt to your ex-wife’s cocaine habit and your brother trying out for the national baseball team; I know it all. Step out of line again, Henry…look at my brother with anything other than respect, and I’ll personally return to teach you the lesson your parents failed to.”

“Please don’t. Don’t touch her,” Mr. Diaz grits out, pain etched on his face as his left hand tries to find a good grip on the broken bottleneck. Multiple times, he fails. Manages to make it worse. “My wife has nothing to do with this!”

Not his father. Not his brother.

His ex, who cucked him for a local dembow rapper who was beginning to take off.

“Then don’t test my patience.” Neither man says anything after that; they sit—I watch the beads of sweat dot their brows, then roll down the sides of their faces. One is unmarred, the other has two wounds.

Unfair if you ask me. Uneven.

“I’m going to ask three questions now, gentlemen. Don’t disappoint me.” Both give a nervous nod, and I ignore the low chuckle behind me. “Who are you working for?’

“We’re independent?”

“Are you asking me, Ismael?”

“No.”

“Mr. Vega, my patience is fucking thin.” One of the sheets tossed atop the table and stained with rum holds his information. I point at it. Wait until he looks down to address him. “Your family isn’t dirty or money hungry. You come from a middle-class upbringing. Good schools, nice home, and your siblings both teach at the university in Santo Domingo. Your parents are also in the academic field and⁠—”

“It was me. All of this is on me.”

“So you woke up one day and decided to start kidnapping and selling young women to overseas buyers? What inspired this newly found business venture?” My sarcasm lands, and I don’t miss the way he shifts back in his seat. Drags the chair back a bit, too. Ismael’s shares a look with his associate; the latter gives a subtle shake of the head. Interesting. “I’m starting to think you need motivation to answer.”

“No. It’s not…” Ismael trails off, swallowing hard when there’s a movement in the darkened corner of the room. Both men stand, walking toward us, and Henry startles as the bottleneck slips from his failed grip. His sudden jerk drags the jagged edges down, tearing his shirt and the muscle below. Blood immediately pours from the wound, his white designer shirt becoming saturated with his life’s essence.

Henry pales, mouth open but no sound comes out.

Ismael tries to stand, but the cock of a gun makes him go still.

“Who hired you, Mr. Vega? Last time I’ll ask politely.”

2

SAINT

The two men step into the light, identical smirks on their faces, and I almost call them out on the identical cocky bullshit. But then again, that’s always been the charm of these two assholes. Thiago and Ivan De Leon control the State of Florida’s drug trade and the production of ghost guns. That’s their business, separate from the Royal Bastards’ operations.